


Could Be Dangerous

by LadyGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Dom!Sherlock, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Spanking, Sub!John, basically everyone is acting like children except for sherlock for once, bonus red pants, john is insecure like a teenage girl, lestrade texts like a teenage girl, shodan Sherlock, sofa storage, takedown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGrey/pseuds/LadyGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is bored and insecure and decides that Sherlock is due for some pestering, but Sherlock is trying to go to his mind palace. (Lestrade really isn't helping.)  John eventually gets what's coming to him!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could Be Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my amazing betas thecapriciousone and Katie. And also to my faster-than-a-Sherlock-deduction britpicker Hamstermoon. I really do have the best team of fanfiction readers ever. I couldn't do this without you guys <3
> 
> [This work has now been adorably illustrated by tumblr user ernstblack!](http://ernstblack.tumblr.com/post/68833294416/i-did-a-thing-for-red-pants-monday-after-reading) To say I am chuffed would be an understatement. Nobody has ever illustrated one of my stories before!

John was bored. Yes, John also got bored. Usually he handled it like an adult, went to the pub with some mates, read a book, ran a few errands, went for a walk, watched some telly. He certainly didn't make it anyone else's problem like a certain consulting detective always did. 

But today was different, because last night John had spectacular sex with Sherlock for the first time and now Sherlock was lying on the couch in his thinking pose, hands on his chin, ignoring John completely. So now, having had a shower and some tea and toast, John was sitting in his chair in his pajamas and dressing gown very put out. Sighs were ignored. Glares were ignored. Firm utterances of “Sherlock!” were ignored. Tea was ignored. Toast was ignored. 

John shredded a napkin in his lap. He wondered if Sherlock would ignore his gun? Sherlock was very fond of John's gun; would the click of the safety being disengaged attract his attention? Would their attraction to danger translate sexually? For that matter, what was stopping John from crossing the room, pulling Sherlock's cock out of his pajamas, and putting that gorgeous thing in his mouth until Sherlock had to pay attention?

John put his head in his hands. He was insecure, that's what was stopping him. Insecure like a bloody schoolgirl who wasn't sure if the boy who just had sex with her actually liked her or was just taking advantage. If he made a pass at Sherlock now, and Sherlock rejected him, he would be crushed. God, this was a terrible idea. Sherlock could be cruel, John knew that, so he had to quash these insecurities now or this, whatever this was, was going to destroy him. He sighed and dropped his hands back to his lap, tiny pieces of napkin fluttering in the air, one sticking to his face where water from his still wet hair had dampened it. He pulled it off his face and rolled it into a little ball with his thumb and forefinger while he thought. 

Damn that man. He couldn't just talk the morning after? Or not talk. Not talking would be fine. Tea and toast, rambling about cases and experiments, that would have been alright. But this? This nonpresence? It made John worry that maybe last night had been a horrible mistake.

John flicked the tiny ball of napkin in the direction of the sofa. It landed in Sherlock's springy curls. John smirked and rolled up another one. He wondered how many of them he could get stuck in Sherlock's hair before Sherlock noticed? 

As it turned out, the answer was many. Sherlock was lost in his mind palace and didn't notice at all, not even when John bounced a napkin ball off his nose and giggled. It gave him an idea: John started aiming for Sherlock's slightly parted lips. He missed a few and bounced them off Sherlock's face, and lost one to the back of the sofa, but eventually he landed one perfectly.

At first he thought Sherlock was going to ignore that too, but then Sherlock began to cough, and cough, and he jolted up into a seated position and hacked out the tiny ball into his hand and stared at it like a piece of evidence in a case. It didn't take him long to glare at John.

“Really, John?”

John was curled up in his chair having a bit of a giggle fit, but he thrilled at finally having Sherlock's attention. “Oh, good, you're talking to me now.”

“I'd rather not be. I need to _think_ John. What has go into you this morning?”

“Oh, about eight inches of consulting detective,” John replied, failing to contain another round of high pitched giggles.

“Oh dear god, I thought the expression 'shagged your brains out' was merely hyperbole, but now it appears it warrants further study. Perhaps we should get you an MRI?”

“The hallmark of any successful study is repeatability,” John said, managing to sound serious for an entire second and a half before he covered his mouth with his hand to prevent another round of giggles. Sherlock's hair was still full of tiny balls of paper and he hadn't noticed yet.

“Later, John. Leave me alone. I need to go to my mind palace.”

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Tiny balls of paper flew everywhere and the look of surprise on Sherlock's face sent John into another paroxysm of giggles. 

“Oh yes, very clever, John. I definitely want to shag you now. Nothing turns me on like juvenile mockery from my school days.” Sherlock frowned and fluffed the remaining balls out of his hair.

John, figuring if he was in for a penny he was in for pound, stuck out his tongue. If Sherlock was going to be an insensitive tit, John could be a petulant child just this once.

Sherlock just glared, shook a finger at John, and said “Stop it. This is important,” in a tone of quiet authority. Then he tossed himself back on the sofa, this time with his bare feet up on the rest, and resumed his thinking position.

“What could possibly be so important? I know you don't have a case. I checked your phone.”

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock!”

Dammit. 

John threw the morning paper at the window and went to make another cup of tea. He thought about throwing out the new eyeballs in the fridge, but then he had a better idea, a terrible idea. 

John carefully opened the jar of eyes and fished out two of the smallest ones with a spoon. They still had the optic nerve attached, a slick bundle of nerve fibers extending a few inches off the back of each eyeball. He carried them out to the sitting room on the spoon and stood at the end of the sofa.

“Sherlock.”

No answer.

John drew a finger down Sherlock's left sole, a gesture that would be ticklish to most people, but Sherlock didn't even twitch. He was lost in his mind palace again, completely ignoring his body. John grinned: perfect. He wound the optic nerve of each eyeball around the middle toe of each of Sherlock's feet. It took a few tries, but he managed to get them to stay. He snapped a picture with his phone and texted it to Lestrade with the caption:
    
    
    Here's looking at you, the game is afoot!

  

    
    
    thats disgusting mate wth?

  

    
    
    Sherlock in his mind palace. BORED.

  

    
    
    im at work could do pub later

  

    
    
    Maybe. Gonna keep pestering Sherlock. Any ideas?

  

    
    
    draw a dick on his face wth sharpies

  


John covered his mouth to stifle a guffaw before replying:
    
    
    Can you imagine? Lol

  

    
    
    i dare you

  

    
    
    No!

  

    
    
    come on! chicken?

  

    
    
    I'm a soldier. I invaded afghanistan.

  

    
    
    then do it. send picture

  

    
    
    He'll murder me. He will actually murder me.

  

    
    
    chicken

  

    
    
    Gregg, no.

  

    
    
    buck buck buk

  

    
    
    This is juvenile.

  

    
    
    after that pic im juvnile?

  

    
    
    Oh shut up.

  

    
    
    u txted me mate

  

    
    
    And now I wish I hadn't.

  

    
    
    then piss off. Sum of us have jobs bsides mooning over moody detectives

  

    
    
    Fine.

  

    
    
    fine

  

    
    
    (I'll get back to you about the pub later)

  

    
    
    fine :P 

  


John chuckled and shuffled back to the kitchen to finish preparing his tea. His eyes fell on the sharpie he used to label things for the fridge. No. It was a terrible idea. Sherlock actually would murder him.

_Could be dangerous. . ._

John giggled again and grabbed the sharpie. He uncapped it and made a beeline for the sofa. 

John missed the subtle shift of Sherlock's eyes as he loomed over him on the sofa, so he was caught off guard when a large strong hand caught his wrist inches from Sherlock's face. With a murderous glare, Sherlock used his other hand to wrench the sharpie from John's hand and throw it across the room. 

John just shrugged and grinned. “Hello!”

“John, if you are going to continue to act like a child I am going to smack you like one.”

John smirked. “I'd like to see you try.”

Sherlock's eyes bored into him in that way he had when he was looking for something, the way that always made John feel like Sherlock could see into his heart and soul and read everything there plain as day. “Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, “Interesting.” 

“What?”

“Nothing. Go away. Mind palace. Thinking. Important.” He released John's wrist and returned to his thinking pose.

“You're a massive tit, you know that?” John shoved Sherlock's shoulder, which caused his entire frame to move a bit, which caused one of the eyes on his toes to unravel and drop to the floor.

“What the. . .?” Sherlock was up again and pulling the remaining eyeball off his foot. “John!”

John couldn't help it, he lost it. Sherlock couldn't seem to decide whether he was helplessly confused or furious as he sat there holding a human eye by its optic nerve and staring at John with his mouth open. John's giggles only seemed to make Sherlock angrier and he dropped the eye and stood up, looming over John. 

“You are unbearable this morning,” he growled.

John shrugged. “It's my turn.”

“No it isn't. You don't get a turn.”

“Oh, so I'm just to make tea and clean your mess in the flat and bend over at night now, is that it?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock stepped closer to John and John stepped back. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed and John knew a threat when he saw one.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“I told you what I'm going to do, John. You could make this easy.”

“Not a chance. You know I can beat you.” John fell into a passive combat stance easily, fluidly. He felt the first kick of adrenaline hit his system and smiled. 

“Welllll,” Sherlock drawled, “you could, but you won't.”

“Oh, won't I?”

“No,” Sherlock smirked, then lunged.

John dodged easily, using Sherlock's own momentum to send him crashing into the window sill where he caught himself before hitting the glass. Sherlock spun around and threw a kick at John's chest, which John blocked and caught, intending to sweep Sherlock's other foot and put him on his back. Before he could, however, Sherlock bent half backward, wrapped his other leg around John's neck, and had him on the floor with some kind of judo throw. John didn't have a chance to analyze it because his breath was driven out of him by his fall. Then Sherlock was on top of him, pinning his wrists to the ground, smirking. 

“Well, John, I think. . .” John bucked his hips, trapped Sherlock's leg, and flipped Sherlock over, reversing their positions. Sherlock laughed.

“I told you, Sherlock, I was a soldier. What were you thinking?”

Despite being beneath John, Sherlock still looked insufferably smug. He squirmed beneath John and somehow managed to turn himself completely over, twisting his arms and wrists in John's hold. It would have been easy to break those wrists, in this position, but John wasn't going to do that so he had to let go. Instead he bore his forearm into the back of Sherlock's neck, trying to keep him down. 

Sherlock tucked his neck and rolled, sending John crashing over his back and into the fireplace with a loud “Oomph!” followed by a quieter click. Wait, what? John looked down at his hands. _Shit_.

“I was thinking,” Sherlock said, rising to his feet gracefully and untying his dressing gown to toss it into the chair, “that the last pair of handcuffs I pick-pocketed from Lestrade were in my chair, and I had to get you over here somehow and distract you.”

John stood up, ignoring the twinge in his back that would inevitably become an ugly bruise. “Well fine. Now I'm cuffed. I can still take you down, Sherlock. I am much better at hurting people than you.”

“You are, but that's your weakness.”

“I don't follow.”

“You won't hurt me. You could have broken my wrists just now and ended this, but you didn't.”

John ground his teeth and glared at Sherlock. “Fine, yes, you're right. I don't want to hurt you. Let's call it a draw. Take these cuffs off.”

“Oh no, John, I made a promise and I intend to keep it.”

“Sherlock. . .!” John threw up a clumsy block with his cuffed hands as Sherlock threw a wild haymaker. He realized his mistake immediately when Sherlock's other hand grabbed the back of his shirt. Sherlock swept his leg (the bad one, that prick) and pulled John backwards over his knee, depositing John tidily on the floor once again. This time Sherlock straddled John's chest so he couldn't buck him off, though it didn't stop John from trying.

“Settle down, John. Admit when you've lost.”

John punched him in the solar plexus with both cuffed hands. Sherlock wheezed and John dumped him off, clambering to his knees and propping himself on Sherlock's chair to pull himself to his feet, but Sherlock grabbed an ankle and pulled, sending John face first into Sherlock's dressing gown. He grabbed it and threw it in Sherlock's face, accompanying the distraction with a warning kick to Sherlock's side. Damn him, Sherlock was right. At full strength the same kick would have him pissing blood for days. Still, even at half strength it ought to hurt. Sherlock gasped and grabbed his side, but he didn't release John's ankle. Instead, he pulled, fast and hard, and John had to turn over and abandon the chair or fall on his face. He ended up sitting on his arse, one foot in Sherlock's hand and the other tensed for another kick.

“Sherlock, stop. I don't want to hurt you, I really don't, but I will.”

Sherlock smirked again. “No you won't,” and moved swiftly as John threw another kick. He let go of John's ankle and blocked the kick, wrapping the sash from his robe around the ankle of the leg he blocked and pulling both sides of the sash to secure it. John pulled away and found the tie frustratingly secure. He aimed a kick with his other leg, but the angle was awkward and Sherlock controlled his momentum now. He caught John's foot and sat on both legs, which allowed him to quickly lash John's feet together. 

“Fuck,” John said.

“Later,” said Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, I swear. . .”

Sherlock flipped him over and yanked down his pajama bottoms, revealing the clean red pants John put on after his shower. “Ohhh, red, what an appropriate color,” he purred. 

“Sherlock, don't,” John was desperate now. He didn't think Sherlock would really hurt him, but this was _humiliating_. Color flooded to his cheeks and he pressed his forehead to the ground so Sherlock couldn't see. 

“I did warn you. Even you must admit you've been especially irritating. You've really had this coming.” Sherlock rubbed his hand over John's pants. It felt nice, warm, intimate, but it didn't last for long. The warmth left momentarily and then Sherlock's hand smacked down hard on John's arse. John jumped, but the sting was bearable, hardly the worst pain he'd felt in his life. A little spanking as foreplay was hardly unusual, so Sherlock could have his fun and then they would shag and actually this was not a bad end to the whole affair so John sighed and resolved to let Sherlock get it out of his system. 

Twenty smacks later and John was gritting his teeth and digging his fingers into the rug. “Alright! Sherlock! That's enough!” 

Sherlock stopped momentarily and bent down to look John in the face. “Hardly,” he said, “you don't really seem to understand how this works.”

“I understand how it works just fine. This has been fun and all, but now you are going to let me go, and we are going to shag, and you are going to not be a tit afterward this time.”

“Ummmm, no.” Sherlock sat up on his knees, wrapped one strong arm around John's waist, and pulled him up on his lap.

“Oh fuck no!” John bucked and squirmed, but Sherlock sighed and dragged him, still struggling, over to the coffee table where he repeated the maneuver except this time he sat himself on the coffee table so he could throw one leg over John's knees to pin him. Oh Jesus. If anyone, even Ms. Hudson, ever saw him like this, trousers at his knees, pink bottom up over Sherlock's lap, he would never live it down. “Sherlock, this is ridiculous. I am not a child.” 

“I am very glad to hear it, since I plan to bugger you raw when I'm done here.” 

Warmth pooled in John's groin and he came to half mast against Sherlock's thigh. _Oh god._ “That isn't. . .I mean I'm not. . .I don't _like_ this.”

John didn't need to look to see Sherlock's smirk. “All evidence to the contrary, John.” He smacked John's burning bottom again and then ground his thigh against John's now fully developed erection. John moaned, entirely without volition. 

“Dammit, Sherlock, it's not like that. I'm not a pervert!” 

“Shame. I think I might be. I'm certainly enjoying this very much.”

“Well I'm not!” John willed his erection away, but Sherlock's hand returned to massaging his bum, and the burning sensation was now spreading into a deeper warmth that seemed to sink all the way through him into the base of his balls.

“Well technically, you're not supposed to be enjoying this, so I'll accept either possibility as advantageous and carry on then, shall I?”

“Sherlock don. . Ah!. . .I swea. . .ow!. . .No! St. . .ah ah ah ah! Bloody buggering fuck!” John tried to throw himself out of Sherlock's lap and his bound feet drummed helplessly on the floor, but Sherlock's leg kept him pinned and the cuffs made his hands useless. 

“Tsk Tsk. Language, John.”

“I am going to fucking murder you,” John managed to gasp.

Sherlock chuckled and yanked John's red pants down his thighs. “I wonder if I can match your skin to your pants,” he said. John was pretty sure his face couldn't get any redder but he felt another flush climbing up his neck.

“Sherlock, please, don't,” John felt pathetic begging, but this was unbearable. He was a grown man for Christ's sake!

“Ah, you are capable of courtesy after all. I think this method of correction is actually getting through to you. Excellent! All the more reason to carry on, don't you think?”

“No!”

But Sherlock ignored him and returned to layering powerful smack after powerful smack over his bottom and the tops of his thighs. Each smack made a horrible cracking sound on John's bare skin and his bum was on fire. He'd been spanked as a child but never this harshly, and never by a lover. He didn't know if the pain or the humiliation was worse, but when he started begging he decided it was definitely the humiliation.

“Ah! Ow! Oh! _Pleease!_ Oh god. Owww! _Please please. . ._ ah ah ah nooooo!”

“You've been a horrible brat this morning,” Sherlock said, then paused to deliver four hard swats to the crease between John's arse and thighs that left John panting and whining and squirming, “you deserve this.”

“Okay, yes, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Can we please shag now?”

“I think that if you didn't want this to continue, you wouldn't continue being so cheeky. You really are fascinating, John! Have you noticed that you still have an erection?”

John hung his head. Yes, he had noticed, and he had no idea how to feel about it. The only consolation he had was that Sherlock's arousal was also digging into his stomach, but considering his position he wasn't sure that was a good sign at all. Did he want Sherlock to be liking this? Part of him was giddy with the idea, but the rest of him. . .oh god, Sherlock was going to be insufferable if he knew he could get away with this.

“Yes, I noticed. This has been an interesting and successful experiment that does not need repeating. I'm sorry, okay? I won't bother you when you're in your mind palace or whatever. Please let me go.”

“But John, I thought you said that the hallmark of a successful study was repeatability?”

“No! Sherlock, don't even think about it!”

“Hmmm, perhaps I should do this every day and observe changes in your behavior. Or perhaps an experiment in classical behaviorism would be more informative? I'll have to give it some thought, if _someone_ ,” Sherlock began punctuating each word with a smack, “Would. Let. Me. Think.”

John keened and squirmed but Sherlock had him well in hand, peppering his smarting bottom with smacks that John would swear were getting harder. He was going to bruise. It really hurt! John couldn't recall the last time he felt so helpless, not even with a gun to his head or a bomb strapped to his chest. And this was Sherlock, the one person in the universe he cared about impressing, and here he was arse over feet over his lap getting his bottom smacked like a child. He whined through another series of smacks, Sherlock layering them all on the same spot, then switching to his other cheek and doing the same, and found himself gripping Sherlock's ankle like a security blanket and digging his head into Sherlock's calf through his pajamas. A lump rose in his throat and he swallowed it down. He was a soldier, dammit, and he was not going to cry. 

“Please,” he begged, “please stop. _Please._ ” His voice cracked on the last please and he knew Sherlock wouldn't fail to notice. 

Much to his surprise and relief, Sherlock did stop. He returned to rubbing soothing circles on John's now bare bottom. The spanking made it extra sensitive, and it felt heavenly. John panted and squirmed and pushed back against Sherlock's hand, craving gentle touch, reassurance, even on his inflamed flesh. 

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about then?” Sherlock asked, voice quiet and low, as kind as it ever got. 

John sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. “I was just bored. I'm sorry.”

Sherlock sighed and stilled his caress. “Wrong.” 

The next flurry of smacks had John shouting himself hoarse. If he'd thought Sherlock was hitting him hard before, he'd been wrong, so very very wrong. This time Sherlock beat him with abandon, fast and hard, not giving John a chance to talk or even breathe until finally, finally, John choked out a sob and the tears ran freely down his face. _Oh god._

John tried to curl into himself in mortification but he was well and truly trapped. He ended up digging his face into Sherlock's calf and leaving his pants leg covered in snot and tears. John didn't even care any more. He had stopped struggling and given in to the heaving sobs wracking his body every time Sherlock hit him. It wasn't even about the pain any more, it was about something else. John felt himself float away from his body a little, and he relaxed across Sherlock's knees and cried helplessly.

When he came back to himself it was to feel Sherlock rubbing his bum again. John's cock was throbbing with heat and his face was red and wet and swollen with crying. 

“So,” said Sherlock, “are you ready to tell me the truth?”

John whined and buried his head deeper in Sherlock's calf. 

Sherlock sighed again and removed his hand from John's bottom, which immediately felt bereft.

“Iwantedyoutopayattentiontome” John gasped out, hoarse, too fast, before Sherlock could start spanking him again. 

Sherlock's hand returned to rubbing soothing circles on his arse. “Why?”

“Because,” John sniffled and choked back another sob, “Because I was feeling insecure.”

“Why?” Sherlock's talented fingers traced into his cleft, but did not offer any pressure. John tried to push back but Sherlock held him down.

“I don't know. You're just. . .just so. . .you were there and then you weren't and I was alone and I thought you were done with me and maybe that was it and all the things I feel for you were stupid and I was just an idiot. . .”

“What things?”

“What?” John's chest heaved and he tried to breathe, tried to focus.

“What things do you feel for me?”

“I. . .Sherlock, please, I can't, I can't.” He buried his face in Sherlock's calf again and fought a fresh wave of tears.

Sherlock released Johns legs and pulled the smaller man into his lap. All the fight had long since gone out of his soldier and John gratefully wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and buried his face in his shoulder, still panting, sniffling, and gulping back sobs. It was enchanting, seeing John this way, vulnerable and undone in a way even orgasm had not achieved the previous night.

“I'm going to take care of you, John. I always take care of you. I've always given you everything you need, have I not?”

John nodded, still hiding his face. 

“Right now you need to be buggered over this table, don't you?” Sherlock wrapped a hand gently around John's erection, still fascinated by its continued presence. John shuddered and pushed into his hand. 

“Oh god yes!” he panted. Sherlock felt John's breath through the thin material of his tshirt, the wet patches where John's tears saturated the material, the constant hitching of John's futile attempts to get his breath back. Sherlock found it all far more arousing than he had anticipated when he started this experiment. 

Sherlock stood and positioned John on the table, knees on the floor, torso stretched across the coffee table, his bare arse an attractive target again. Sherlock couldn't help caressing it one more time, fascinated by the heat and the color and the way John moaned and twitched and attempted to rut against the table when he touched it. John's cuffed hands stretched out to grip the other side of the table and that was. . . _oh_ , that was _good_.

He reached across John and fished out the lube and condoms he'd hidden in the couch cushions for the inevitable post-case shag on the sofa or against the wall. He didn't take long preparing John because he rather liked the idea of hurting John just a little bit, of John suffering for days, pain a constant reminder that he was _Sherlock's_. Sherlock was not known for his empathy or his astute psychological evaluations of other people's emotions, but he suspected the constant reminder would do wonders for John's insecurities.

So with only the minimal necessary preparation Sherlock rolled on the condom and drove into John. John cried out and choked on another sob, but Sherlock didn't stop. He fucked John fast and hard and it was better than last night, better than a closed door murder, better than the cocaine, and Sherlock couldn't wait a moment longer so he reached around and wrapped a hand around John's cock and pulled and they both came so hard Sherlock was certain he would be dizzy for days.

When he could speak, Sherlock stretched himself over John, wrapped his hands around John's still bound wrists, and whispered: “I love you, John Watson. I love you with every cell of my body, every atom of my being. I will never, ever, tire of you. You are mine whether you like it or not. If you try to leave I will stalk you down and bring you home, because you belong here, with me, forever.”

John whimpered and truly, finally, broke. A puddle of silent tears began to form on the table. 

Sherlock rose, but only to drag John into a cuddle on the sofa and let him cry quietly into his tshirt until he was spent. John's pajamas and pants were bunched up at his ankles where they were tied, but Sherlock couldn't reach them in this position. John didn't seem to notice or care anyway. Sherlock lost track of time as he stroked John's back and well punished arse. Eventually, John's breathing calmed and he nosed his way up to Sherlock's neck and planted a small kiss on his pulsepoint. 

“How did you know?” John whispered, still open, still vulnerable, “I didn't even know.”

“I didn't know. It was a hypothesis, one I am glad to have proven.” Sherlock dropped a kiss to the top of John's sandy hair, which stuck up in all directions like John had just had the best shag of his life. It was certainly the best of Sherlock's. (Although in fairness Sherlock had a much smaller sample size for comparison and he was certain with time and practice he could do better.)

“So I suppose we're both perverts then,” John said.

Sherlock frowned. “If you must call it that. But this is more than that, don't you think?”

John sighed and nodded. “I love you too. I don't know why I couldn't say it. If you need to beat me daily to hear it, it's fine. It's all fine.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, “but I will take daily beatings under advisement.”

John huffed and finally cracked a smile. Sherlock felt it against his neck and returned it in kind.

“So what were you thinking about that was so important?” John asked.

“How to top my performance from last night, how best to leave you insensate with ecstasy. It requires forethought and planning, John.”

John giggled. “Well, there's that accomplished then.”

Sherlock grinned. “Indeed, but it's not even tea time and I still have to take you to bed tonight. I have lost valuable thinking time and I'm afraid my performance may be lackluster at best.”

John giggled again. “I don't think that's possible.”

“I have a proposal, if you'll hear it.”

“Oh god. Fine. What is it?”

“I think you should clean yourself up and go to the pub with Lestrade and leave me to think. When you return I promise you won't be disappointed.”

“Are you joking?” John looked up and finally met Sherlock's eyes. His face was puffy and flushed and his eyes were rimmed with red, his eyelashes stuck together in a way that made them dark and fetching. “I can't go out like this. People will take one look at me and know exactly what happened!”

“No they won't, people are unobservant idiots.”

“Lestrade isn't,” John pointed out.

“Not usually, no,” Sherlock winked at John.

John's face blushed even deeper red. “No, Sherlock, that's. . .”

“Brilliant? Humiliating? _Arousing?_ ” Sherlock stroked one teasing finger up the side of John's cock, which had twitched, half hard again on Sherlock's stomach. 

John just groaned and buried his face in Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock wove his fingers into John's short hair and gently pulled John's head back far enough to kiss him and insinuate his tongue between John's teeth. He kissed John and nipped at his lower lip until John was fully hard and squirming against him.

“You're going to do as I say,” Sherlock said, voice low and threatening, “or I won't lay a finger on you tonight.”

“Jesus,” John whimpered, pupils wide, lips trembling.

“Go take a shower, cold if you like, and put on something presentable.”

John didn't move.

Sherlock slapped his bottom playfully and John yelped and tried to leap to his feet, only to fall into a trembling puddle of bound limbs and clothes on the floor. Sherlock laughed and yanked him by the handcuffs back to a seated position. John hissed, wrists chafed a bit raw by the cuffs and bottom undoubtedly sore. Sherlock dug around in the couch cushions again, certain he had a set of cuff keys in there somewhere. His hand closed on something cold and squishy and Sherlock pulled the somewhat mangled eyeball out of the sofa and held it up to John with one raised eyebrow. His eyes crinkled and he rested his head on Sherlock's knee as he rode out a giggle fit. Sherlock joined him, but eventually lifted his chin to kiss the giggles away. 

“I have to admit, the eyeballs were remarkably creative.”

“Thanks,” John said, and held up his cuffed hands. 

Sherlock finally found the keys and released him, and John took care of his own ankles. He levered himself to his feet with the aid of the coffee table and took a moment to find his balance again on shaky legs before yanking up his pants and pajamas. 

“Shower, now,” Sherlock said, “or do I need to take you over my knee again for a reminder?”

“Okay okay!” John waved his hands in surrender, “I'm going!”

Sherlock couldn't help the smug smirk that developed on his face when John limped across the room and down the hallway. This limp was of an entirely different character than the one John had when Sherlock met him, and Sherlock liked it. 

He stretched out on the sofa and returned to his thinking pose. This morning had opened up a rather dazzling array of possibilities. Sherlock began sorting them into place in the room that had now become a pleasure dungeon in his mind palace. He wandered over to the wing where he stored his cases and perused all his memories of bondage and restraints, tickled that his primary occupation was able to inform this new area of expertise he would need to develop. He returned to the dungeon and started making a shopping list. Tonight, of course, he would have to improvise, but the future was full of seductively dark promises.


End file.
